


There May Be Some Design

by isengard



Series: Providence [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Cancer, M/M, i wanted to continue the verse and this happened, im so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isengard/pseuds/isengard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takao gets sick, and Midorima searches for meaning.</p><p>prequel/sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1031046/chapters/2054226">You Really Ought To Know</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so people said they wanted more of this verse, I'm pretty sure this is not what any of you had in mind but it's what my brain did and yeah maybe one day I'll write fluff but it is not this day

It starts when Takao wakes up early one morning and notices that his knee, the one he blew out in college, has swollen to the size of a large grapefruit.

“Huh,” he says. “That's not good.”

“Mm,” Midorima says, stirring and rolling over in bed. “What is it?”

“Just my knee,” Takao sighs. “Don't get up; I'll get an ice pack.”

Midorima lifts his head off the pillow and frowns sleepily. “Your knee again,” he says. “That's odd.”

It _is_ a little weird, considering it's given him hardly any trouble for nearly a decade, but Takao shrugs. Sports injuries can be finicky that way, as a physical therapist he knows that better than anyone.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” he says, stretching his leg out and wincing as it throbs in protest. “Just some fluid buildup. It'll work itself out.”

“Take a prescription dose of Advil,” Midorima suggests, reaching for his glasses. “Shall I get you the ice pack?”

“Hey, hey, go back to bed,” Takao scolds him, pulling his hand away from where it's fumbling at the nightstand. “You promised you'd sleep in today. I'm _fine_ , I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” He leans over and steals a quick kiss, smiling at Midorima's disgruntled noise. “I'm the one who does this for a living, remember?”

Midorima grumbles, but eventually settles down again and closes his eyes.

Takao massages his knee in the shower, loosens it up until it feels a bit better. He's good at identifying types of pain, and it doesn't really _feel_ like his ACL, but that could just be the number of years its been. Probably he just slept on it funny, or maybe overextended himself with Midorima last night. It wouldn't be the first time, he thinks with a wry smile. At thirty-four, he's not decrepit or dependent upon Viagra, God forbid, but he's definitely not twenty anymore.

Twenty, he recalls, was a _very_ good year.

“Where's Papa?” Naoko asks, sliding into the kitchen in her stockings.

“In bed, hopefully until midday,” Takao tells her. “He's pulled four eighteen hour shifts in the past two weeks, I've ordered a long weekend off for him.”

Naoko snorts. “Good luck with that. I don't suppose there's breakfast, then.”

“I could try to make something,” Takao offers, which has them both wrinkling their noses. “Hey, weren't you going to take cooking classes? Maybe I should go with you.”

“They're classes for _kids_ , Dad. I think you're a lost cause at this point,” she laughs. “Didn't Grandma teach you anything?”

Takao shakes his head. “Trust me, my cooking's an improvement compared to hers. There's a reason we always ordered out.” He drums his fingers on the counter. “Care to make it a tradition? I'll walk you to school, we can pick something up along the way.”

“You'll be late,” she points out, which isn't a “no”. Takao grins.

“ _Technically_ I can set my own schedule, and my first appointment isn't for an hour,” Takao says. “C'mon, let me buy you breakfast. I have to take advantage of these moments while you'll still deign to be seen with me in public.”

“Yes, I think those days will be coming to an end quite soon,” Naoko says dryly. “All right. Let me just get my school bag.”

Takao pops four Advil with the last sip from his water glass, feeling significantly more springy already.

*

A few days later, his knee is swollen again, and this time, it really _aches_ , radiating muscle pain all the way up to the middle of his thigh. “What the hell,” he demands, frowning down at it.

“Perhaps if you'd stayed _off_ of it this weekend, as I suggested you should,” Midorima says, seated on the bed next to him and pulling on his socks.

“I did! Mostly,” Takao protests.

“Kazu, you were running soccer drills with Naoko yesterday for over an hour.”

“Sometimes movement can be beneficial, though,” Takao argues. “It was worth a try.”

Midorima gives him a dispassionate look. “An _hour_.”

Well, he may have a point. “Maybe not my best idea,” Takao admits. “Fine. I really will stay off it today.”

“Do,” Midorima says. “I dislike seeing you in pain, even pain of your own making.”

“Such romance,” Takao sighs, leaning over to butt his forehead against Midorima's shoulder. “Hey, Naoko's dribbling is getting way better, though. She got past me half a dozen times, and I wasn't holding back at all at that point.”

“Good for her,” Midorima smiles, only slightly stiff about it.

Takao tugs on his sleeve. “Shintarou. It's _good_ , I promise. She _likes_ it. She's happy.”

“I know,” Midorima says. “I know you're right. I can't help but worry.”

“She's got great coaches,” Takao says, the words rolling off his tongue with easy familiarity as he rubs soothing circles into Midorima's wrist with his thumb. “She's got us. The hawk-eye and the helicopter parent extraordinaire. She knows we're proud of her no matter what.”

Midorima doesn't reply, but Takao feels a little of the tension bleed out of his shoulders all the same.

“I think she's got a pretty good shot of getting play time this weekend,” he continues. “Did you get Nakatani's email? He said he'd try to come out for her game.”

“I did,” Midorima says. “I told him we'd save him a seat. That should please Naoko, at any rate.” He shifts, and looks at his watch. “I'd better go, I'm leading the morning rounds today.”

“Mm. Try not to make any interns cry,” Takao says, gently tugging his face around for a kiss. “You still want to meet my sister for dinner tonight?”

“Yes, let's do that,” Midorima nods, leaning back in to give Takao another quick kiss next to his eye. “Stay off your knee.”

“I will, I will,” Takao says, rubbing it out of instinct. Stupid knee. Hopefully a couple days of actually resting it will fix things, or at least send his old injury back into dormancy for another decade.

*

“Sorry I'm a little late,” Nakatani says, climbing onto the bleachers to sit next to Takao. “Winter Cup's coming up, you know how it goes.”

“No big,” Takao grins, thumping him on the back. “Naoko hasn't been put in yet. Shintarou thinks the coach is saving her for the second half.”

“It's what I would do,” Nakatani nods. “They'll need a fresh, strong forward to lead the offensive strike. You can see now the coach is focusing on keeping a tight defense.”

“Naoko's defense is very good as well,” Midorima says, eyes trained on the field. “She seems to prefer offense, though.”

“A young athlete who enjoys scoring points,” Nakatani says. “What are the odds.”

“How's Shuutoku doing?” Takao asks. “Think you'll get the trophy this year?”

Nakatani shrugs. “Anything's possible. Between us, I doubt it. Half of my players are mid-growth spurt, which is inconvenient, but with enough double practices they should be up to par in time for next Interhigh.”

“Ah, the memories,” Takao sighs. He glances up at Midorima. “I'm glad you'd stopped growing by then, Shintarou. Any taller and you wouldn't fit in the car.”

Midorima doesn't appear to hear him, too busy glaring daggers at the referee who has just called a foul on Akiko, one of the the girls on Naoko's team.

“There was no way to tell if that kick was deliberate,” he mutters, perhaps to himself, Takao's never sure. “Preposterous. Where do they find these people, honestly.”

“Soccer-mom-mode activate,” Takao whispers to Nakatani. Ah, leaning over like that was a bad idea. He grips at his knee, wincing.

Nakatani raises an eyebrow at him. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah, just my knee's been bugging me the past couple weeks,” Takao says.

“That's the one you blew out, isn't it?”

Takao nods. “Dunno why it's acting up now. Freaking annoying.”

“Mine started giving me trouble some years ago, but that's just arthritis,” Nakatani says thoughtfully. “Anything else hurting?”

“ _No_ ,” Takao says, horrified. “I'm only thirty-four, there's no way it's arthritis.” He shudders. That actually _is_ one possible explanation, but – no. Just no. “I'm gonna put a brace on it next week, see if that helps.”

“It might,” Nakatani says. “I've known pro players who got injured and never really recovered all the way. Kagetora still has to wear wrist guards from time to time. ”

“I've noticed that resting it does help, which is a good sign,” Takao says. “Shintarou thinks I ought to see a doctor, but he thinks that about everything. They can't tell me anything I don't already know.”

“You should at least get an x-ray,” Midorima says evenly. “To see if there are any new developments.”

Takao shrugs. “If it keeps up, I probably will. If anything was seriously wrong with the ligament, I'd know it.”

The referee's whistle blows again.

“ _That_ one did look rather intentional,” Midorima says. “Excellent aim, though.”

*

By the end of the next week, Takao admits to himself that the brace hasn't done any good. His knee is _seriously_ hurting now, the swelling is hard to keep down and it's starting to keep him up at night. Midorima writes him a prescription for heavy-duty painkillers that at least allow him to sleep without being awoken every hour, but they don't stop him from feeling like he's been run over by a truck every time he does finally wake up.

To make matters worse, Midorima's crabbiness about the entire ordeal has reached unprecedented levels. Takao doesn't know that he's seen him this grouchy since medical school.

“Go. To. The. Doctor,” he snaps, when Takao has to call in sick to work one morning. “For heaven's sake, you're barely able to _move_.”

“I can move,” Takao argues, irritated. Mostly tired. “I just...ugh, I feel like crap, please don't nag me right now. Think I might have the flu.”

“You've lost weight,” Midorima says. “Something is _wrong_ , Kazu.”

“I haven't had any appetite, maybe it's the painkillers,” Takao says. “But yeah, I know, I'm gonna make an appointment with the orthopedist today.”

“You should've made one two weeks ago.”

“You know what, Shintarou?” Takao sits up in bed, angry. “My _job_ is to manage injuries like this. It's a fucking ten-year-old torn ACL, not usually something you call in the big guns for, okay? I'm _good_ at this, I _know_ what I'm doing. This is the _exact_ same thing I'd recommend any patient do, and I don't really fucking appreciate you insinuating that I'm a negligent caregiver.”

“You're putting words in my mouth,” Midorima says. “And you're wrong, I've seen you send patients to the hospital for far less than this. It's been getting worse for weeks now, and you've got a whole host of other symptoms to – ”

“Sports injuries don't cause the flu, Shintarou. Come on.” Takao collapses back down onto the bed, too tired to stay angry. “I'll be fine, just...what?”

Midorima's face has gone very pale.

Takao frowns. “Shintarou?” He looks _frightened_ , an expression Takao's seen on his face only a handful of times. “Babe? Are you okay?”

A tense moment passes, and then Midorima seems to come back to himself.

“I'm sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “That was...something occurred to me, but. It's very unlikely, I don't want to trouble you with it.” He hesitates, reaching for the door. “Kazu, please go in today, if you can, and get an x-ray.”

“Okay,” Takao says, taken aback. “I will. I promise.”

“You'll be seeing Dr. Sekijima?”

“Probably, if she can fit me in,” Takao says.

“Have her call me after she interprets the x-ray,” Midorima says. “If it's all right. For my own peace of mind.”

“Uh, sure.” Takao scowls, irritated again. “For the record, you know I could interpret my own x-rays if I wanted to.”

“I'm aware,” Midorima says, voice thin. “This isn't about my job or your job, I simply want to hear your results from an unbiased third party. You always underplay things when they're serious and exaggerate them when they're superficial, it's a very aggravating habit.”

“Right,” Takao says. “Well, she's a _real_ M.D., so she'll obviously be much more professional.” He doesn't even know why he's picking a fight, this is so _stupid_ , he just feels awful and this entire ordeal has made him feel miserably inadequate. This is the kind of thing _he_ should be able to fix, for once.

“Wait,” he says, before Midorima can muster up an angry retort. “That was shitty, I shouldn't've...ugh, it's just how I feel.” He shakes his head. “I don't know. You should go to work.”

“I should,” Midorima agrees, looking at his watch. “Before either of us says anything regrettable.” Slightly softer, he adds, “Go to the doctor, Kazu, or I'll drag you myself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Takao says. “I'll see you later.”

Midorima looks like he wants to say something else for a moment, but ultimately decides against it, closing his mouth and walking briskly out the door without so much as a backwards glance.

*

Upon arriving at work, Midorima goes straight to his research computer and roots through the backlogs until he finds what he's looking for. He cancels his first two appointments – something he's never done before – and calls Osaka Medical Center, as a matter of urgency.

“This is Dr. Tanaka.”

“Dr. Tanaka, this is Dr. Midorima Shintarou calling. We've met twice at the Tokyo Oncology Conference,” Midorima says, more rushed than he intends to be.

“Dr. Midorima, of course I remember you,” Tanaka says, sounding surprised. “I read your latest paper on marrow grafting with great interest.”

“Thank you,” Midorima remembers to say. He clears his throat. “As I recall, your speciality is in soft tissue sarcomas.”

“That's correct. Do you need a referral? My caseload is quite full, but I'm hardly the only expert in – ”

“You are the foremost expert,” Midorima interrupts. “I simply wanted to ask you a few questions about fibrosarcoma in joint tissue, if you have a moment.”

“In joint tissue?” Tanaka pauses. “That's extremely rare, you know. I've only seen a handful of true cases in my career.”

“Yes, you mention it briefly in your paper on fibrosarcomas of the bone,” Midorima says, trying not to be irritated. Of _course_ he knows, honestly. “I just want to know how it presents, what the prognosis is. I've never seen a case myself.”

(He hasn't, because Takao doesn't have this, Takao _cannot_ have this, Takao is simply downtrodden with a virus and an old injury and a proclivity towards self-neglect, all things which Midorima will fix, particularly that last one, so that he never has to deal with this kind of stress ever again.)

“Well, the cases I've seen have all been fairly advanced, preventing recurrence gets tricky with soft tissue, as you know,” Tanaka says. “Is this for a patient?”

“No,” Midorima says. He doesn't elaborate.

“I see,” Tanaka says, after a moment. “As I said, I've only seen a few true cases, but like all sarcomas, it's best to catch it as early as possible. The truth is, fibrosarcoma is rare enough that it's quite easy to miss. It's often mistaken for arthritis, or a strained muscle. If the tumor is benign, it could be months before it's discovered.”

Midorima swallows. “And if the tumor is malignant?”

“Well, you know how that goes. Once the cancer starts to spread, the immunology will become a factor. These things metastasize quickly, obviously the prognosis is worst when the tumor is located in the hip or shoulder.”

Midorima glances over his notes. “The literature seems to suggest that the most common points of origin are the elbow and the knee.”

“That's true,” Tanaka says. “Whether those statistical figures are accurate, given the infrequency of diagnosis, I couldn't tell you.” Another pause. “I'm sure you understand, I can't formally give any recommendations without a proper referral, and I'd really have to see the patient if you wanted greater specificity here.”

“That won't be necessary,” Midorima tells him. “He doesn't – he's not a patient. I simply wished to satisfy my curiosity on a few points.”

“Of course,” Tanaka says. “I know we specialists live in defiance of Occam's Razor. Sometimes I think I ought to have been a pathologist.”

“Is that so,” Midorima says, not knowing particularly why he should care. “Well, thank you for your time. I'll let you get back to work.”

Tanaka bids him farewell, and Midorima is left feeling no less uneasy than he had upon arriving at work with a clear task set before him.

It's an odd thing, being married. Having a family. Objectively, Midorima _knows_ the likelihood of Takao having this obscure variant of sarcoma is slim to none, just like he knew the likelihood of Naoko's stomach virus being non-Hodgkin lymphoma when she was eight was negligible at best. That knowledge hadn't stopped him from doing a full blood-workup on her at the time, something he'd further justified by saying that they didn't have her family's full health history in their records. Because Midorima isn't one to leave things to chance, even if that chance is infinitesimal. Tanaka was right about that, at least - it's why he became a specialist in the first place.

“Send message to Kazunari,” he tells his phone, rubbing at his temples. “'Have Dr. Sekijima order a blood test as well', period. 'I know you think I'm being ridiculous', comma, 'but if she doesn't do it', comma, 'I'll bring a kit home and do it myself', period. Send.”

The phone chirps, indicating a successful delivery, and Midorima eyes another notification in his menu, a tiny sun icon indicating he hasn't checked Oha Asa in three days.

It's not as if he _needs_ to, he's not dependent on horoscopes like he used to be, the absence of a lucky item among his office's various knickknacks isn't enough to send him into a panic anymore. There's a photo next to his desktop of Takao at the beach, some five or six years ago, dripping wet with a beaming Naoko perched atop his shoulders. It stays in its frame, but Midorima knows the message scrawled on the back of the picture by heart: _With love, your two luckiest items (expiration: never)_. Midorima consults this picture whenever he needs a boost; if it's a particularly rough day, there's the other one he keeps hidden in his desk drawer, the one of Takao lounged out across their bed, half-covered by a sheet, Midorima's glasses sliding down his nose and a mischievous expression on his face. Oha Asa never gave Midorima the security his family does, it all seems rather embarrassing and frivolous now, but. He can't deny there is some comfort in the routine of it, a sense of order he feels upon viewing the rankings, even without the meaning he saw in them before.

His stylus hovers over the icon, he hesitates. Truthfully, it might make him feel a bit better if Scorpio has a high ranking, if something in the horoscope suggests favorable health outcomes for those born in the late autumn.

On the other hand...

 _Shintarou_. Takao's voice fills his head, gentle, reproving. _Stop watching that nonsense. They're not going to decide whether or not to approve us based on a television program_. He's twenty-six, there's a four-year-old girl in an overcrowded foster home whose face is already stamped on his heart like a brand.

 _It's okay to use this for fun stuff_ , Takao continues. _I don't mind, you're not as bad as you used to be. But not for big life stuff, okay? That's too stressful. We're the ones making this happen, you and me. Not the stars. Not some amateur writers moonlighting as astrologers_.

He's right, of course. Nothing good can come out of the creeping dread Midorima feels looking at that icon, that tiny, cheerful reminder that all of his worst fears could unravel before him at any moment. _It's like manifest destiny, or whatever_ , Takao used to say. _We don't need it. We're making our own_.

Midorima closes the notification. He's a renowned oncologist at Tokyo's top research hospital, for heaven's sake. He's watched countless patients overcome terminal illnesses, turn three-month prognoses into twenty years, _all_ without the input of Oha Asa. He's never allowed fate to interfere with the lives of his patients, and he'll certainly never allow it to dictate the future of his family.

“Send message to Kazunari,” he says again, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “'I love you'. Period.” It's ridiculous to be embarrassed, he thinks, sitting here alone in his office, speaking to a phone.

A moment later, his phone beeps twice. Once to let him know his third patient of the morning has arrived, five minutes early, and once more to deliver a reply from Takao.

 _You better, for all the trouble I'm going to for you today. I'm at the hospital now so you can quit your worrying. Love you too, don't be home too late or we'll all starve_.

Midorima allows himself a small smile, replaces the phone back in his desk drawer, touches the picture frame next to his desktop, and walks out into the lobby to meet his patient.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuses for how long this took besides i work a lot and im unfocused trash sorry guys
> 
> my thoughts are wips i cannot fathom into completed fics

Takao sits in the waiting room, alternating between rubbing his knee and glancing around restlessly. The pictures in the room haven't changed since he was last here, nine years ago now. The same tranquil ocean landscapes, a tapestry or two. The receptionist is younger, a pretty girl who flirts with him a little before she notices the ring on his hand. He smiles at her and feels like laughing out loud, because she's _exactly_ the kind of girl he used to think he'd end up with, the kind of girl he always liked but never loved.

 _Sekijima's got a new girl up front, I think she's planning on stealing me away_ , he texts Midorima. He doesn't get a response, which isn't surprising. Midorima never has his personal phone on him when he's working.

“Just a few more minutes, Takao,” Sekijima says, appearing behind the front desk and rifling through some papers. “Your radiographs are printing now, and there's only one person in front of you for the blood test results.”

He gives her the thumbs up. “No problem.” Sekijima's an old friend of theirs, she was his doctor all through the ordeal with his ACL, and helped him get set up at a physical therapy clinic once he graduated. It's nice to see her again, even given the circumstances. Hopefully she'll be able to fix him up quickly, the whole not-being-able-to-walk-properly thing is getting _really_ old.

One and a half magazine flip-throughs later, she comes back out. Takao gets to his feet.

“Shintarou wanted you to call him about the results, but I can probably just take them home,” he says. “Anything interesting?”

“Takao,” she says. Her face is stricken.

He falters. “Is it torn?” It _can't_ be torn again, he'd _know_ if it was torn again, wouldn't he?

She says, “We should talk about this in my office.”

“Right.” He follows her, his stomach sinking with every step. It's _bad_ , it must be bad, God, what if he's _crippled_? What if he needs surgery? He'd need a wheelchair for that kind of recovery, and a brace until then, there'd be no soccer with Naoko, this can't be _happening_ –

“I'm just going to put these up, you can see them yourself,” she says. Her voice isn't shaking, but it's not steady, either.

“You're kinda freaking me out,” he says, stepping up to the screen to watch. “Is it really that bad? Am I gonna need like, pins in my knee?”

The screen flickers on. Takao looks.

Several seconds, or possibly a lifetime, pass while he takes in the image in front of him. He swallows. “That's not my knee.”

“Takao,” Sekijima says. “I'm so, so sorry.”

“That's not my knee,” he insists. “This...no, _no_.” His hand shakes as he points to the screen. “This can't be me.”

She says, “There's no way you could have known.”

“But,” he says. “I have a _sports_ injury.”

“I've never said this before,” she says. “But I wish it was your ACL, Takao. I really do.”

Takao didn't go to medical school, at least not the kind of medical school Midorima did. He knows a great deal more about oncology than most physical therapists as a result of being married to the guy, but he doesn't need any of that extra knowledge to interpret the image in front of him. The ligament is _fine_ , as far as he can tell, still in perfect shape, right up to the point where it's obscured by the staticky mass that's settled over the top of his fibula.

“The edges of the tumor are ill-defined,” Sekijima says, pointing, as though Takao might miss it. “I – you know what that means.”

“It's malignant,” Takao says. “I think I should sit down.”

She gestures to a chair. “Please.”

Takao sinks into the seat heavily, head swimming. _Cancer_. This must've been what had Midorima so frightened this morning – Takao never even _considered_ –

“I haven't gotten the results of your bloodwork back, but I imagine we'll see cancer markers, based on these x-rays,” Sekijima says. “I don't know if you want to find your own oncologist, or if your husband will want to take the case himself, but we'll get all the results to them at once, with your clearance.”

“He wanted...you should call him, to tell him.” Takao swallows. “He'll want to hear this from you. But yeah, I think I can find my own oncologist. If Shintarou doesn't take the case, he'll know who the best person is.”

“Okay,” she nods, reaching for her phone. “Office number?”

Takao gives it to her numbly. Part of him wants to tell her not to call, part of him wants to grab the phone away and tell Midorima himself, part of him wants to scream and throw the chair he's sitting in out the window.

She puts her hand over the receiver as though reading his mind and says, “Are you sure you want me to be the one to tell him?”

Takao nods. “He'll – you know how he is, he'll want to know specifics. Besides, I don't think – ” his voice cracks, “ – I can't – it's just better if he hears it from you.”

She seems to understand, anyways. “I'm on hold,” she says.

He probably should've expected that. “Sorry, if you have patients you need to see – ”

“Takao,” she says. “You're not just a patient. And this isn't a typical case. It's fine – oh, hello, Midorima-san. This is – yes, I'm well, thank you.” Her eyes meet Takao's briefly. “He did. Yes, we did the bloodwork. I should have the results any moment.”

Takao doesn't know what exactly Midorima's response is to that, but he has a pretty good idea, based on the way Sekijima's eyebrows raise ever so slightly. “That _is_ fast. I suppose that's the benefit of being at a research hospital. Well, ours is only a few years old – yes, that's quite a span in terms of medical innovation. Of course.”

If the circumstances were any different, Takao would roll his eyes.

“The reason I'm calling – yes, he did, but I would probably have called you anyways. I'm afraid I have some bad news.” She bites her lip, and glances at Takao again. “Takao's ACL is fine, he hasn't re-injured himself, but the x-rays show a tumor present at the superior tibiofibular joint.” She takes a breath. “Yes. Malignant. About six and a half centimeters in diameter.”

Takao can't make any words out on Midorima's end of the line, just a strangled, horrible noise that sounds like some combination of a shout and a sob. Tears prick at his eyes reflexively, he presses a hand to his mouth.

Some moments later, Sekijima nods. “I figured you would. If you'd like, I can schedule him for further imaging tests here today. We – it's brand new, actually. Installed two months ago. Yes, the latest model. I'll forward you the results with your husband's permission, of course.” She puts her hand over the receiver. “Do you want to...?”

Takao nods mutely, holds his hand out for the phone. He sniffs, once, trying to dispel himself of the urge to cry before he's pressing it to his ear.

“Shintarou,” he says.

“There's a specialist in Osaka,” Midorima says, “A colleague, he's the leading world expert on fibrosarcoma, which is most likely what you have. I'll forward him all your relevant scans, and we'll arrange to have you brought there. There are new treatments – aggressive, but they're many times more effective, surgical procedures that result in much lower rates of remission – ”

“Shintarou,” Takao says again.

“Even if the tumor has metastasized, there's another specialist here who has found great success with a particular radiation regimen as a precursor to surgery, you'll have many options, I still have several articles to read so there may even be more current methods for dealing with soft tissue sarcomas.” Midorima stops, but doesn't appear to be breathing. “We will deal with this, Kazu. It won't – you won't – it _will_ be taken care of.” His voice grows slightly distant. “I may be late tonight, I have a great deal of reading to get through, the journals are backdated further than I previously thought...”

“Shintarou.” Takao bites his lip. “Please just come home. Don't stay late.”

“I'll need a blood sample for that,” Midorima says, seemingly to himself. “Kazu, come here after your CT scan, our equipment is more current than the hospital's there, we'll just do your blood sample analysis in the lab here.”

“I want to go home,” Takao says. “I'll do the tests here, but then I want to go home. I want to see you and our daughter. Shintarou, please.”

There's a long silence, Takao faintly hears the sound of Midorima's teeth grinding together, hears the strain in his voice when he says, “Yes, I...I suppose that would be best. I'll bring the journals home.”

Takao sinks back into the chair with relief. “I just want to be with you,” he says. “That's all.”

“You will have your whole life to be with me,” Midorima says, an edge of fierceness in his tone.

Takao stares at the ceiling, and tries not to think about how short of a time that could potentially be.

*

The imaging tests don't take long at all; Takao stays an extra hour in the hospital for no particular reason, reading pamphlets and browsing through the pharmacy without knowing what he's looking for, without really seeing anything. He does want to go home, more than anything, but he's afraid it won't be the same place. This morning, home was _safe_ , home was a space he didn't have to worry about things like impending mortality. The bed where he sleeps with his husband, the park where he used to push their daughter on the swings, the basketball court where he felt the edges of his vitality sharp and clear, where he felt he could live forever, with Midorima at his side.

Now, none of those places are safe.

He goes back to the apartment anyways, of course. Naoko won't be home until dinner – that reminds him, they were supposed to have Midorima's sister and her husband over that evening.

Shit.

“Hisako, hey,” he says, when he gets through to her at her office. “It's Kazunari.”

Hisako, as always, doesn't bother with formalities. “What's wrong? You never call me at work, is my brother all right? Has something happened?”

“Ah,” Takao says, biting his lip. “Shintarou's fine, Naoko's fine. We're all – fine, yeah. Sorry to bug you at work.” He swallows. “Afraid we have to cancel tonight, I'm uh...not feeling well.”

“You don't sound well,” she says, as tactful as her brother. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Just got back from the hospital, actually,” Takao says, trying to keep his tone light. “They'll get it sorted out. We'll see you soon?”

“Yes, please. I have a bottle of wine I've been meaning to open for months, but Wataru is a complete savage and only drinks Sapporo, apparently.”

“I think we have some Black Label in the fridge,” Takao says. “Actually, I think he left it here after my birthday party.”

“Pour it down the drain,” Hisako suggests. “I'm sorry to hear you've fallen ill, Kazunari. We'll be in touch soon. Give my best to my niece, and my brother.”

“Will do,” Takao nods. His throat is too tight, he needs to get off the phone. “Take care.”

She hangs up first, in true Midorima family fashion. Takao considers texting Midorima that he's canceled their dinner plans, but considering how distracted Midorima had sounded on the phone earlier, it seems highly unlikely he'll even know what Takao is talking about.

The afternoon passes in something of a haze; he does a web search on fibrosarcoma and immediately gives himself a headache reading about treatment options. It's all surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, brachytherapy. His great-uncle died of stomach cancer when he was eleven; he recalls visiting and playing chess with the old man during his hospitalization. He remembers the look of the people sitting around getting chemotherapy drugs pumped into them, he remembers the _smell,_ the cloying sourness of disease and decay that he'd had to scrub out of his skin afterwards. The scent that Midorima brings home sometimes after an inpatient rotation, that always makes Naoko wrinkle her nose when she hugs him.

He doesn't cry, though he wants to. There's a saved message on their machine from Nakatani with the news that Shuutoku managed to make it past the Winter Cup Preliminaries, a few emails from clients that he forces himself to answer. His knee aches when he limps to the bath, he swears he can _feel_ the tumor under his skin now, growing, spreading its poison throughout his leg with every passing minute.

He doesn't realize he's been staring at it, sitting motionless on the couch, for over an hour until he hears the sound of the front door opening.

“Hey,” he says, when Midorima walks into the living room, looking smaller beneath his coat than Takao would've thought possible. “You're back.” His voice cracks, he realizes he hasn't said a word aloud since getting off the phone.

“You're here,” Midorima says. “I thought...I'd hoped...”

He doesn't have to finish the thought. Takao's been pinching himself all afternoon, praying each and every time that he wakes up, that all of this has just been a distant, bad dream.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I know.”

Midorima says, “Wait in here for a moment.”

Takao can hear the sounds of the kettle boiling, and soon after Midorima returns with a tray for them. He pours the tea, and they sit in silence.

“I spoke to Dr. Tanaka, my colleague,” Midorima says, finally. “He's agreed to grant me the professional favor of taking on your case.”

Takao swallows. “He's the one in Osaka?”

“We agreed it would be best for you not to travel extensively,” Midorima continues, staring at his cup. “He has business in Tokyo once a month, he'll see you at the Cancer Research Institute next week. The size of your tumor makes surgery an overly risky measure to take right away, so once we've pinpointed the severity of the cancer, we can design a treatment regimen to reduce it.”

“'We',” Takao repeats. “So you're going to be my oncologist.”

Midorima looks up at him. “If – if that's all right with you, yes, I'd like to oversee your care.”

He's as white as a ghost. Takao's never thought of either of them as _old_ , really, and they're not, but Midorima looks like he's aged ten years since this morning.

Takao nods. “Yeah, I'd hoped you would, actually.” There's a numb sort of ache in his chest that reminds him of years long ago, when he'd wanted to lean on Midorima but wasn't sure it wouldn't send them both toppling. He reaches for Midorima's hand, instead.

“Hey,” he says. “We're gonna get through this.”

Midorima takes his hand, delicately, and Takao squeezes his fingers as hard as he can.

 _I'm not going to break_ , he doesn't say.

 _Don't be afraid of me_.

“What are we going to tell Naoko,” Midorima wonders aloud.

Takao shrugs. “The truth.”

Midorima looks troubled. “Don't you think – we should wait, shouldn't we? Until we know more specifics. There's too much uncertainty at this stage.”

“She's gonna know something's up,” Takao says. “There's even more uncertainty if we don't tell her anything, come on.”

“We can tell her it's not anything to concern herself with,” Midorima argues. “She's too young, it'll only frighten her.”

“Shintarou,” Takao says. “She can handle it. I don't want to hide things from her, anyways. Remember how we said we were gonna do this different than our parents?” He squeezes Midorima's hand again. “She's not us.”

“She's not _me_ , you mean,” Midorima says with a short huff. “Fine. I still think we should wait, at least until you've seen Dr. Tanaka.”

“No, I mean she's not _us_ ,” Takao says. “For one thing, she knows a hell of a lot more about medical stuff than we did at her age. She knows about cancer, from you. She knows it's not necessarily a death sentence.”

Midorima stills. “Don't say that.”

“Shintarou, I can't not talk about it. I'm scared too, you know.”

“And how do you suppose _I_ – ” Midorima pauses. “I cannot – I _will_ not lose you, Kazu.”

Takao bites his lip. “You don't know that,” he says. “I know, I'm sorry, I know you hate it, but it's all I can think about, okay?”

“This is why we should wait to tell her,” Midorima says, clearing his throat. “You'll cause her undue distress if you start talking about – that – right off the bat, she's only a child, she can't understand the nuances associated with – _we_ shouldn't even be talking about it, because we don't know anything yet, you can't just – ”

Takao shakes his head. “This is too big, Shintarou. I need my family with me on this one, or I'm gonna lose my mind.”

“I _can't_ ,” Midorima grits out. “Kazu, I could barely get the words out to my colleague, a man I've met _twice_. I can't even _think_ it, how on earth do you expect me to tell my daughter?”

“Tell me what?”

The stern line of Midorima's mouth crumples, his eyes close. Takao feels it like a strike to the chest.

He turns, trying to offer a smile to Naoko, who is fresh from soccer practice. The look on her face tells him he misses the mark by a significant margin.

“Dad? Papa?” She _does_ sound frightened. “Tell me _what_?”

“Nothing for you to be worried about,” Midorima says, putting on a similarly abysmal poker face. “How was practice?”

Her bag hits the floor. “I scored fifteen times. What's wrong?”

“Fifteen, wow,” Takao says. “Honey, that's great.”

She bursts into tears.

Midorima looks alarmed.

“Are you sending me back? Is this because of my report card?”

Takao stares at her, uncomprehending. “ _What?_ ”

“I only failed one test, I just studied the wrong chapters, I _swear_ it won't happen again – ”

“Holy shit,” Takao says. “No, oh my God, Naoko. Sweetheart, come here.” He holds out a hand to her, and keeps it extended until she takes it, pulling her onto the couch between them.

“This is exactly why I said we should tell her,” he says to Midorima, who still looks horror-stricken. “Naoko, I need you to listen to me. There's no 'back'. You're our _daughter_ , and we'd never send you anywhere, do you understand?”

She sniffles. “Then what's wrong? What did I do?”

“You didn't do anything,” Midorima says. He puts a hand on her knee. “I didn't mean to upset you, Naoko.”

“It's about me,” Takao says. “But Shintarou's right, there's no reason for you to be worried. We don't know a lot, yet.” He takes a deep breath. “You know how my knee's been bugging me?”

She nods, brow crinkled in confusion.

“Well, I went to the doctor today to get it looked at, and.” He glances at Midorima, who's gone pale again. “I've got a tumor in there, it turns out.”

“A tumor – ” she whips her head around to look at Midorima. “Cancer? Dad has _cancer_?”

“He has a soft tissue sarcoma,” Midorima says, as though the words are being dragged out of him. “It's malignant. It's also highly treatable.”

“You'll fix it,” she says. “You can fix it, right?”

Midorima looks sick. “I – ”

“We don't know very much yet,” Takao says, gently. “I know this is scary, and believe me, we're scared too. But we're gonna figure this thing out, don't worry.”

“Papa can fix it,” she says. “I can't believe you weren't going to tell me.”

“We were,” Takao assures her. “We just weren't quite sure...how.”

“You're going to be fine,” she says firmly. “You don't _look_ sick. Are you sure you have cancer?”

Takao cracks a real smile at that. “Pretty sure, kiddo,” he says. “I know it's hard to believe, a handsome guy like me.”

“Gross,” she says. “Are you – do you need anything?” She glances at the tea. “Should I make soup?”

“No, your Papa's got dinner,” Takao says. “Go wash up. We can talk about this more later, if you want. I'll tell you everything we know so far.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “But none of that stuff matters, because you're going to be fine.”

Takao squeezes her shoulder. “That's my girl.”

She gives Midorima a significant look, then gets up and walks back into the hallway. A minute or two later, they hear the hiss of the shower, and Takao lets out the breath he's been holding.

“She's definitely your daughter,” he says to Midorima.

“I was about to say the same thing to you,” Midorima replies dryly. He takes Takao's hand again. “It appears you were right, anyways. She handled that better than I expected her to.”

“She's handling it better than either of us,” Takao says with a rueful smile. “Jeez. Hell of a kid.”

“She has a great deal...” Midorima swallows. “...a great deal of confidence. In me.”

“She's smart, then,” Takao says. “You might want to talk to her later, though. Just about, like, what to expect.” He lets his head tip back against the couch. “Fuck. We can wait to tell everyone else, maybe. If that's okay. My mom's gonna flip out.”

“Hisako will likely react similarly,” Midorima says. “I agree, that may be for the best.”

Takao pulls him down and kisses him.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Don't thank me,” Midorima murmurs. “I haven't fixed you yet.”

“Even if you can't.” Takao tries to keep his tone light. “I want you to know – ”

“Stop.” Midorima shakes his head. “Tell me when you're well, Kazu.”

Takao thinks about arguing, but the mere thought is too exhausting to bear, so he nods. “Okay,” he says. “I'll tell you when I'm better.”

“I'm going to start dinner,” Midorima says, rising. “Stay here. Rest.”

“I'm not an invalid,” Takao frowns, grabbing the tea tray before Midorima can. “Sheesh. Go on, I'm right behind you.”

Midorima gives him an exasperated look.

“What? It's not a sports injury, staying off of it isn't gonna make the cancer go away.” Takao feels a surge of triumph when annoyance wins out over fear on Midorima's face. “You gotta let me do this stuff, while I still can.”

Midorima regards him stiffly, then sighs. “I suppose. You'll be bedridden enough once we start treatment, there's no sense in letting you off the hook early.”

It's a small victory, anyways. Takao follows Midorima into the kitchen, and keeps the true meaning of his words to himself. He has a feeling Midorima heard them, even if he won't acknowledge it yet.

For now, it's enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Takao starts his first round of chemotherapy within a week of diagnosis. It's a preparative regimen, but it's still fairly high-dosage, given thrice weekly, which he makes sure to complain unduly about.

“I don't know when you guys think I'm supposed to get work done,” he grumbles as Midorima injects the drugs into his IV. “No one told me cancer would be this inconvenient.”

“I'm certain we have pamphlets on the subject I could locate,” Midorima says dryly, adjusting the drip carefully. He doesn't mention the fact that Takao will soon have to stop working altogether, that he'll have to transfer to inpatient once he has the operation, if not before.

Takao shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and turns on his tablet. “Whatever,” he says. “At least I can catch up on my idol shows, since _someone_ always refuses to watch them with me.”

“Your personal life sounds very trying,” Midorima says. He pushes some of Takao's hair back out of his face, a familiar gesture that makes something in his stomach turn over. “I'm glad you've found an upside to being here, at any rate.”

Takao raises his eyebrows. “Are we role-playing? Talk about upsides.”

There are other patients around, not to mention doctors, nurses, social workers, and it's hardly _professional_ to indulge Takao, but Midorima's never really known how to resist. “Do you need anything else?” he asks in a low voice.

“You sound like a porn, I hope you realize that,” Takao says faintly. “Jesus. Quit coming onto me, Hot Doctor, I'll have you know I'm a happily married man.”

“Are you,” Midorima says, glancing down at the chart in his hands and trying not to smile. “What a shame.”

“But like I said, he won't even watch my idol shows with me, so what he doesn't know won't hurt him,” Takao smirks. “You free for lunch?”

Midorima looks at him in surprise. “You have an appetite?”

“Eh,” Takao shrugs. “I should probably eat, though. That tea you gave me did help with the nausea, thanks.” He wrinkles his nose. “That got unsexy.”

“This situation isn't exactly conducive to that sort of thing,” Midorima admits. “Though, I have to say, you're the first patient I've had brazenly hit on me while actively undergoing chemotherapy.”

“No way.” Takao narrows his eyes. “Wait, so patients _have_ brazenly hit on you, just not when they're in this chair, am I hearing that right?”

“I only take my ring off for surgery,” Midorima mutters, embarrassed. “It's happened a few times. I handled it terribly, you would've been proud.”

“Unbelievable,” Takao says. “Look at you, you're bright red just talking about it. Men? Women?”

Midorima chooses to make an indistinct noise and move things right along. “You said your nausea has improved, how about the dry mouth?”

“It's not terrible,” Takao says. “I could use some water.”

“I'll fetch you some,” Midorima nods. “You seem to be tolerating the dosage well, so far. After this, you'll have the week off, and then we'll start the next round.”

“And that one's four times a week,” Takao sighs. “You said the dosage is higher?”

“Significantly,” Midorima says. It makes him ache to think of how _sick_ Takao is going to be, no matter how well he's tolerating the preparative regimen.

“You think I'll have to take work off that week?”

“I wish you would,” Midorima says honestly. He can hardly fault Takao for wanting to keep working; the money isn't an issue, certainly, but he can't imagine that he himself would be any more amenable to the idea of handing his caseload over to another oncologist, no matter the circumstances.

“I'll see how it goes, I guess,” Takao says glumly. “Good thing we hired Nikaitani. At least I know I'm leaving my clients in good hands.”

“It's only temporary, Kazu,” Midorima reminds him.

Takao looks out the window. “You don't know that.”

_I do_ , Midorima doesn't, cannot say. He's heard it from so many patients before, he's never argued. There's no certainty in medicine, he'd never give false hope to a patient. It tears at him, but it would be crueler to lie, and he never could make himself be cruel to Takao.

It's much easier, though, to be cruel to himself.

Takao _will_ recover.

He has to.

“Tanaka will be back to review your progress at the start of next month,” Midorima says, clearing his throat. “I'll be keeping him updated in the meantime.”

Takao makes a face. “Guy's got kind of shitty bedside manner,” he says. “I'd rather have you, to be honest. Are you sure he's that good?”

Midorima can't admit to being overly impressed with Dr. Tanaka's social skills either; he'd thought the man's scientific enthusiasm would've been more reined in outside a conference setting, and it's been somewhat perturbing to find that's not the case. More than once he's had to remind Tanaka that Takao is his _husband_ , not a research subject, nor a specimen for him to bring graduate students over to poke and prod at.

“He is that good,” he admits. “He's...very dedicated to his work. I know he's not all that personable, but he's done more research on this type of sarcoma than any other physician I know of.”

“Mm,” Takao says. “One of _those_ types of specialists, I guess.”

“He's not married,” Midorima says. “No children. There's no reason, really, for him not to devote himself to his career.”

Takao looks up at him in surprise, and Midorima immediately regrets saying anything. He doesn't know why he's feeling the need to defend Tanaka when he is objectively no less sorry to see the back of him than Takao is, but. He can't help but see a shadow of himself in Tanaka, someone he might've become, had his life gone in a different direction.

“You know,” Takao says after a moment. “I was gonna say I feel sorry for him. But he seems happy enough, doesn't he?”

Midorima frowns. “If you're suggesting that I – ”

“No,” Takao shakes his head. “No, I don't think you would've been, Shintarou. _That's_ what I'm suggesting.”

Takao is too perceptive, as always. And right. Tanaka _does_ seem perfectly happy as he is, as fulfilled by his work as Midorima is by his family. He may represent something Midorima was always afraid he'd become, but they don't actually have that much in common at all.

“Takes all kinds,” Takao says, offering him a lopsided smile. “I'm just glad you're the kind I get to see every day, and not him.”

“I've been told my bedside manner has improved,” Midorima admits. “Though it's far from polished.”

“Eh,” Takao waves a hand, carelessly. “Tsundere charm points make for excellent bedside manner, you ask me. Not your fault some people have bad taste.”

“That's one way of putting it, I suppose,” Midorima says. He looks at his watch. “I'd prefer to stay here with you, but I should probably go and check on my other patients.”

“Yeah, right. I bet you say that to all the girls,” Takao grins. “Go on, break hearts, save lives. I've got my game show all loaded here, I'm good.”

“Page me if you need anything,” Midorima replies, feeling his face heat up. He should really be _used_ to Takao by now, he thinks as he adjusts his glasses. There are times when he thinks he finally has a handle on their relationship, that he's experienced the full extent of every feeling Takao is capable of inspiring in him, but all it takes is one word, one _look_ , and he's sixteen again. It's a phenomenon he'd feel compelled to submit a study for, if it wasn't so precious to him.

It's another reason that he cannot, under any circumstances, lose Takao.

*

“Is Dad eating with us?” Naoko asks, in the middle of serving herself a heaping portion of rice.

Midorima shakes his head. “Your father started his second round of chemotherapy today,” he tells her. “He's resting.”

Naoko stares at her plate. “Is it that bad?”

“It's a great deal of stress to be putting on his body,” Midorima says, uncertain how much he should tell her, how much she'll understand. “The cancer is still affecting him, and the chemotherapy and radiation therapy kills it, but it also kills his healthy cells. It's going to make him very sick.”

“Healthy cells,” Naoko says, slowly. “Like hair, right? That's what makes people's hair fall out when they have cancer.”

“That's correct,” Midorima nods. “The cancer treatment is what causes hair loss, most of the time.”

She says, “But he needs it.”

“His hair will grow back,” Midorima says.

“If he doesn't get the chemotherapy, he'll die.”

“Naoko,” Midorima says severely. “Your father is _not_ going to die. Don't say such things.”

She doesn't say another word throughout the rest of dinner, and Midorima gets a strong feeling he may have made a misstep. Normally, he'd ask Takao – normally, he wouldn't _hav_ e to, because Takao would be there to mediate, to point him in the right direction – but Takao is asleep, and Midorima can't bear to wake him. It'd been harder than he'd imagined, watching the full dosage of the treatment take effect, watching Takao slowly hunch over in the high-backed hospital chair, the color draining out of his face, chills and sweats wracking his body in the aftermath.

After cleaning up the kitchen, at a loss of what to do with himself, he knocks outside her room.

“May I come in?”

She slides open the door and looks up at him, solemn-faced. Midorima's heart thuds in his chest as he remembers another time, with another door sliding open to a room lined with bunk beds, a small round face and dark, serious eyes that regarded him curiously, that gaze up at him now with the same veiled apprehension. He wants to reach out to her now as much as he did then, and for a moment, he forgets that any time has passed at all, and freezes.

Naoko frowns. “Papa? What's wrong?”

It's like a bell ringing in his head, crystal clear. The first time she'd said it: _Papa, I dropped my owl_. They'd been on the train, there was no retrieving the forsaken stuffed animal, and Midorima'd been so shocked and pleased that he'd bought her a new one straight away, and forgotten to scold her at all.

_That's all right_ , Takao'd laughed, when he learned how easily Midorima had been manipulated. _You're a dad now, Shintarou. You're supposed to spoil her a little_.

He hadn't felt like a father, seeing her for the first time in that oversized dress with her thumb in her mouth. It hadn't hit him even when the paperwork finally went through, even when he strapped her into the carseat for the first time. Midorima isn't sure when the change took place, it's not like the other roles in his life, there's no ring or exchanging of vows, no graduation ceremony, no training to complete or approval from a Board of Directors. But at some point during the past eight years, he did become a father. Perhaps even a good one.

“I'm sorry I was harsh with you at dinner,” he says. “Please forgive me. What you said, it – it frightened me, and I reacted badly.”

Naoko accepts with a small bow, and crosses her arms across her chest. “I don't want Dad to be sick,” she says quietly. “When can you take the tumor out?”

“I don’t want him to be sick either,” Midorima says. “We'll take it out soon. Right now it's too big, so we have to see how it responds to the treatment.”

She makes eye contact with him again, piercing, trapping him where he stands easily, more like Takao than he would've believed possible. “You'll fix him,” she says. It's not a question. “Promise.”

It's another request he's heard before, countless times, as a plea, as a threat, as a command. As a doctor, Midorima can't make promises, can't offer guarantees.

As a father, as a husband, he has no choice.

“I promise,” he says fiercely. “We're all going to be fine.”

He still wants to reach out to her, so he does, and she throws her arms around him and allows him to stroke her hair. Takao showed him that, too, on the very first night they'd brought her home, after she'd wet the bed and woken up crying out of fear and distress. It sends a chill through him that he does it now without any prompting, that parenting instincts have taken over where there was once only Takao, patient and reassuring. He doesn't want to be able to do this without Takao.

“It's cold in here,” he says. “Why don't you bring your schoolwork into the living room, and I'll make us some hot drinks.”

Takao wakes up and joins them with his own stack of paperwork, eventually. It's the quietest weeknight they've ever spent like this. Midorima's never been more unproductive.

“I'm gonna go into work tomorrow,” Takao says when they get into bed. “Just a half day. I think I can swing it.”

“Don't push yourself,” Midorima says, knowing it's somewhat useless. “Naoko's worried about you, you know.”

He doesn't say, _I'm worried about you_ , but he knows Takao hears it.

“Naoko believes in her Papa,” Takao says, snuggling into his side. “And so do I.”

He's not talking about the cancer, though, and Midorima knows it.

_I can take care of her on my own_ , he thinks. _Don't make me._

_Don't leave me._

_Promise._

*

When he comes home from work the following day, Takao is throwing up in the bathroom. The bed is turned down and there are papers laid out on the covers and the nightstand, the screen of his work tablet is illuminated with an unfinished message to Momoi at her work address, signified by the law firm's logo emblazoned in the header of the message. There's only half a sentence written, and Midorima doesn't want to snoop and look at the previous messages, so instead he examines the papers.

They're all from the legal files that they keep in the bottom drawer in the office; Takao's business license, their tax returns, the deed for their rental property in Kobe. Life insurance policies, Naoko's adoption papers, and – Midorima's stomach drops – Takao's will.

“I needed to update it,” Takao says from the doorway. His voice is a thin rasp. “Sorry. I was gonna tell you.”

Midorima swallows. “Presumptuous, don't you think?”

Takao manages a dull laugh. “That's what I said when you wanted me to draw one up in the first place. Never did look at the thing.” He shakes his head. “We didn't have the Kobe house in there. And my net worth's gone up a lot, and we have that trust from my grandparents. Momoi's going to update everything, I just have to get her all the information.”

Momoi had been their lawyer throughout the adoption process as well, they'd drawn up the wills and taken out life insurance policies at her suggestion. At the time, Midorima had thought it made good sense, that it was all part of providing for a child, the mark of responsibility. Now, reading it, he wants to rip the document up, as if destroying it will eliminate the possibility of it ever being necessary.

“If there's anything you want changed, you should tell me,” Takao says. “We've still got it so that she'd go to my parents – if anything happened to both of us – then Kanako, then Hisako and Wataru. Then Kuroko. Then your parents.”

It's all precautions, nothing more. It doesn't _mean_ anything, Midorima tells himself, it's not an omen or a jinx to put it on paper.

“Why did you need Naoko's adoption papers?” he asks, finding his voice.

“Ah.” Takao looks a little green again. “Momoi's going over them again, I was just doing my own read-through. Making absolutely certain her placement won't be jeopardized if – if something happens to me. The agency was really shitty about single parents, you remember.”

“I remember,” Midorima says. “And about same-sex parents, I suppose it wouldn't be terribly surprising if there was...some sort of stipulation, in the fine print.” His words are unsteady, the thought of losing Takao is bad enough, to lose _Naoko_ –

“Hey,” Takao says. “I'm not making funeral arrangements, okay? This is just in case, this is worst case scenario. We probably should've updated all this stuff anyways, it's been eight years now.”

“I,” Midorima pauses, waits for the edge of panic to subside. Takao is patient, as always, soft and expectant even as sick as he is, slumped in the bathroom doorway and gazing at Midorima in that way he has, like he sees _everything_. Past, present, future, every incarnation of uncertainty Midorima has shaped himself into, prepared himself for. There was a time when it irritated Midorima to no end, when he thought himself advancing and Takao dawdling, settling for less than the top.

There was a time when Midorima realized – Takao _was_ progressing, Takao was fluid, Takao believed in change, it was Midorima who was stagnant, trapped. And it was Takao who pulled him forward.

He says, “You're right, I should update mine as well. It was an oversight to put it off for this long.”

“We can do it together,” Takao says. “Like the boring old couple we were always meant to be.”

_We're not old_ , Midorima wants to say. _This wasn't supposed to happen to us. Not yet_.

“Yeah,” Takao shrugs. “I don't know. I hate paperwork, even when I'm getting paid to do it. This sucks.”

“Yes,” Midorima says, his eyes falling back to the will in his hands. “Yes, it does.”

Takao retches. “Fuck,” he mutters, rushing back into the bathroom.

Midorima makes to follow him, but the door slides shut, and he falters. Takao almost never shuts their bathroom door, not even when he's relieving himself, which Midorima has somehow learned to endure. Midorima likes privacy sometimes, and they have an unofficial policy of letting the other be if the door is closed, but – it feels _wrong_ , letting Takao be alone right now.

He feels uncertain, a familiar loss of footing that is no less frightening than it used to be. He wants to act, he wants to do a hundred things, rush to Takao's side, crush the updated will into a ball in his hands, cry, scream, take Takao to bed and hold him there closely until the cancer is forced out of him by the sheer, unbreakable force of Midorima's willpower.

He looks at the will again, and sets it down.

Naoko will be home from soccer soon.

She walks home now, with her friend Kawahara Akiko. Takao used to pick her up after practice, and Midorima would meet them at home. Midorima isn't sure what exactly precipitated the change. He supposes it's only natural that she be afforded more independence around this time; her last year of primary school. Akiko comes home with her at least once a week, and sometimes with others as well – they do homework, watch television. Takao demonstrates the height of his cooking ability by heating up horrifying Western-style frozen snacks in the oven. It's not much of a routine, admittedly, but it's theirs.

It's an interesting dichotomy, being a parent. Midorima's always made it his business to strive for certainty, for stability, its a near-constant state of vigilant dissatisfaction, and it's what makes him such a effective physician. Being a parent is quite unlike being a physician, the only certainty he's found in fatherhood is that it's hopelessly unstable, his role is forever changing, shrinking, expanding, it's _terrifying_ in so many ways, and it's the most exhilarating and satisfying thing he's ever done.

He remembers filing these adoption papers, signing them, and thinking he knew what he was getting into. Moving, setting up Naoko's room, installing the carseat, that _ridiculous_ shower Kise insisted on throwing them. Reading the books, attending the seminars with Takao, so many long evenings and late nights that they'd talked it over, how they were going to manage. Raising a child amidst shifting cultural paradigms had been an intimidating prospect, but it hadn't taken long for Midorima to realize he didn't want to follow in the footsteps of his parents all that much anyways.

If it weren't for Takao, Midorima knows, he might not be a father at all.

“Do you remember?” he says to the stillness of the room. Takao can't hear him, but Midorima knows what his response would be anyways. Takao may not always be one for nostalgia, but he remembers everything, because everything is continuous to him.

_Do you remember_ , Midorima would say, _how young we used to be?_

And Takao would smile and say, _We're still young_.

_Do you remember_ , Midorima would ask, _how foolish we were?_

Takao would laugh at him. He'd say, _We're still fools, Shintarou_.

_I know_ , Midorima thinks. _I know it's foolish. I don't care_.

They'll beat this. Naoko will _not_ lose another father, not like this. Midorima won't let it happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i was gonna have this chapter be a flashback to them adopting naoko, but then it got away from me, so that's the next chapter for sure! thanks so much for reading guys <3

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone is interested, all the stuff about fibrosarcoma is true, I used to work at a cancer research facility and one of the physicians there was the leading world expert on fibrosarcomas of the bone. its interesting stuff! really rare though, don't panic if your joints start hurting.


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